Free The Wanderer by Timothy J. Jarvis Page B

a frayed blanket, half a beer can, jagged torn edge, with a few coins in, by his head. In the glass of the chemist’s door, I could see his face reflected. He was youngish, had short, brown hair, a full, matted, reddish beard. Though his eyes were half open, I was sure, from the sedate, regular rise-and-fall of his chest, he slumbered. On his nape was a crude tattoo in blue ink, pigment bled, hard to make out. I leant in to peer. It seemed a sword, straight crossguards, blade hanging down. Just then he snorted, twitched, and, thinking he was, after all, awake, to cover my gawking, I scrabbled in my pocket, drew out a pound, tossed it into the makeshift alms cup. But when the coin hit with a loud chink, he stirred, opened his eyes, blinked, looked dazed. Turning, he squinted at me, then pulled out, from beneath his bedding, a pair of glasses, black plastic frames held together with gaffer tape, put them on.
    ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’
    Grunting, he rubbed his eyes under the thick lenses.
    ‘Just got to sleep.’
    ‘Well…Sorry.’
    I backed away.
    ‘Arsehole.’
    I went on, pace brisk.
    On reaching the Nightingale, I saw fitful flickering behind the frosted panes; a fire was burning in its hearth, and I was glad,because of the cold, the gusting wind, and because it would make the place even snugger. The pub’s board, a painting of the songbird it was named for, squalled as it swung restlessly back and forth. I went inside, looked about. Many of the pub’s appointments dated back to when it first opened, the late- Victorian period. The space was partitioned, by wooden screens inset with panels of etched glass, into a public bar and saloon at the rear; the island bar was mahogany with a pine counter, and had a canopy carved with a row of leering heads, Green Men, foliage sprouting from their mouths, wreathing their faces; and the walls were decorated with a lapis-tile dado and hung with fly-spotted mirrors in tarnished gilt frames. Apart from the wavering glow of the fire, the only source of light was a motley array of standard and table lamps, dim bulbs, but the effect was cosy, not dismal. There were Christmas decorations up: paper chains, swags of ivy, sprigs of mistletoe, and a tree hung with silver baubles and clumps of angel hair, but they were muted, sparse, didn’t irk me.
    I’d told the others to carry a copy of
The Sphinx of the Ice-Fields
, 6 as if we were a book group meeting to discuss it; I knew them, by this token, by the volumes laid out on the table. They sat in slightly strained silence, by the fireplace, in the saloon. I’d meant to be early, but the truculent youth at Highbury Corner and the traffic in the City had delayed me, and it was already five past the hour, and, seemingly, I was the last but one to arrive. I joined them.
    We began by, in turn, giving our names and occupations, that ritual of first gatherings. As I’d stipulated replies to my classified should be anonymous, provide no identifying personal details, it was the first time I learnt anything about those I’d invited to attend. A young man wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a suit jacket introduced himself first. He was William Adams, a graphic designer. A woman in her late twenties, strikingly pretty, dark complexioned, long dark hair, spoke up next; Rashmi Natarajan,a legal secretary hailing from Edinburgh. Then came Elliot Wainwright, a pensioner from Norwich, with a cheery lined face, shock of white hair, and white tufty eyebrows. The stylishly dressed middle-aged woman sat next to him seemed familiar to me. Her name was Jane Ellis. She described herself as a single mother of two from Blackheath, but, as she was speaking, recognizing her brittle accents, I realized why I knew her: she was the author of a number of historical romances, one of which,
The Feminine Monarchie
, a fictionalization of a love affair early in the life of Charles Butler, the, till the book’s publication, relatively obscure seventeenth-century